Fifth of July
by SombraAlma
Summary: Abby meets the Lubylet for the first time. Not based on current spoilers.


**Title: **Fifth of July  
**Author: **Katie/SombraAlma  
**Character:** Abby Lockhart, Abby/Luka  
**Rating:** PG  
**Summary:** Abby meets the Lubylet for the first time. Slightly more eloquent than that, I hope.  
**Author's Notes:** This was written far before the events of the season 12 season finale, and far before spoilers for season 13 came out. So it's quite different than the other Lubylet fics out there. My own wishful thinking, I suppose.

It's the fifth of July, and early this morning, somewhere between five and six centimeters, Luka said she waited to be born until today because she's not _only_ an American. Which of course is technically untrue, since three minutes old is a little young to be thinking citizenship and passports, but at the time all I did was smile and nod and breathe, pant a little. He seemed pleased that his daughter was considerate enough to wait until after the Fourth, and there I was wishing she'd forgotten about July altogether and had just stuck with June. I asked when Croatia's Independence Day was and when he said the eighth of October with a small smirk I was almost glad for a stronger contraction so I could grab his hand and crush his fingers and forget about being pregnant for another three months.

But that's beside the point. The point is, it's the fifth of July, and he's just handing me this brand-new, almost-born-on-the-fourth-of-July, screaming ball of redness and skin and hair. I swear I break it down like that. I notice the redness first, then it registers that it's skin, and then I see the hair. _Her_ hair, I remind myself, and for a minute I can't figure out where she got it, because _my_ hair certainly isn't that dark and never was. Then I look up at the man who just handed her to me and think, _oh_. It's a good thing I didn't get the epidural, because I can just imagine myself drugged right now and it's not pretty.

She's surprisingly heavy on my chest but I don't get time to ponder that at all, because she's whisked away and Luka hovers over Coburn like a hawk and announces Apgars and weight and length to me as if he's announcing the final scores of the gold medal Olympic figure skating championship. Can you tell I was a pregnant insomniac during the winter Olympics this year? And then she's whisked back to me, cleaned up and swaddled and not screaming anymore, and I have the fleeting thought that the poor thing must be getting dizzy. But of course all this whisking is really happening very slowly, and it's only _me_ who thinks everything is happening all too fast.

So she's back on my chest and I'm holding her there like I know what I'm doing, and now I do have time to ponder how heavy she feels. Seven pounds four ounces feels a lot heavier than it sounds. Luka is brushing the hair from around my face and telling me I "done good." He actually says that, "done good," and while I'm thinking how backwoods American that sounds he tells me he's proud of me, dragi, and that makes me feel better because it sounds very Luka. He kisses my forehead then, and I'm grateful for the familiar gesture because looking down, this creature in my arms? Not familiar at all.

She was familiar inside of me. I knew her there. I _loved_ her there. We'd play games, Mommy and baby games, poking at each other in the middle of the night when we both couldn't sleep. And now that she's not inside of me, I'm bewildered and more than a little scared and it's silly, but I actually miss her. I don't love her outside of me, not now, not yet. I actually start thinking about the eighth of October and how maybe that wouldn't have been so bad after all.

My bewildered-scared look must appear to Luka to be the mythical misty glow of new motherhood, because he's smiling at me, at us, so tenderly that I know he's got no idea I'm this close to begging Coburn to put her back in. I look up at him and he must realize then, because he moves closer, his hand on that dark, dark hair and nods at me. His voice is so soft that I barely hear it. "It'll come." I choose to believe him because I can't do anything else, and because he knows about these things. I wonder if he's thinking about twenty years ago, another birth, another bewildered and scared mother, and then I close my eyes because some things are just too much to think about with your eyes open.

I think I fell asleep, because now I'm waking up and it takes me a second or two to remember. But the bruised feeling between my legs, and not a good bruising mind you, brings me back to reality and I open my eyes. He's taken the baby and is sitting with her next to the bed and as I watch them, watch _her_, suddenly it comes. I gasp a little and I'm not sure if the fogginess in my eyes is sleep or tears, but in that moment my life changes, even more so than when I'd pushed her out, and I know that I would die for the two of them in that chair. I've never had anyone I would die for, not really.

He must hear my gasp because he looks up from her and smiles broadly. He starts to speak and I can't understand him and I realize he must have been speaking to our daughter in Croatian while I slept. He looks sheepish and corrects himself. "Did you sleep well, Mommy?"

I nod and marvel at the name being used for myself, even though he's been using it for me sporadically, to annoy me and endear him to me at the same time, over the past five months. But it's never been this real before and so I marvel. I can't take my eyes off of her, and I reach my arm out. "Bring her here, let me see her."

He smiles again, or more accurately he hasn't stopped yet, stands up and settles himself and our daughter with me on the bed. It's a tight fit, the three of us, and he hands her off to me so he can rest his arm across my shoulders. I'm looking at her closely now, and unlike the first time I notice more than redness and skin and hair. She has the longest eyelashes I've ever seen on someone so small. Luka's chin and what I hope are going to be his dimples. If I'm not mistaken, that's my nose, and I run my finger down it, landing on her tiny pursed lips. "Oh, Luka," I sigh, and he knows what I mean and I don't have to say aloud that I hope someone will be setting off leftover fireworks tonight.


End file.
